


encore

by soltvde



Series: encore [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, because these two deserve nothing but, more comfort than hurt tho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:14:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8923810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soltvde/pseuds/soltvde
Summary: He pronounces his name differently, less harsh than Ma had always done. The sibilant doesn’t sound like a vicious hiss, and when he stretches it out it’s almost poetic, reminds Credence of beautiful speeches in the early sermons, back when his Ma still took him to regular church; makes him remember the word actually means something.
Or— Credence and Graves, healing together.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElectricDove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElectricDove/gifts).



> happy birthday to my lovely, wonderful, beautiful friend natas.
> 
> i planned to work on something else entirely, but this wanted to get written more than anything else. you deserve 100k more words of it. you also deserve the world, which i can't give you, but i hope this will suffice.

It’s two weeks later that they see each other again.

Credence almost loses himself once more when he looks out the window of his church, ruined as it was— nowhere else to go, to hide, the only shelter he ever knew. He’d roamed around back alleys and deserted streets, trying not to bleed out, but always came back.

There’s a man on the other side of the street, scarf wrapped tight around his neck, tails of his coat billowing in the heavy New York wind, and he looks the same as before, except— except—

His hands start shaking, and he spots dark lines on his wrist where veins are supposed to be. _Rotten_ , he thinks, watches it spread to his arm and his fingers until there’s inky smoke coming from his finger tips. Despite every bone in his body hurting and his vision blurring with something he can’t control, Credence looks back outside, only getting another glimpse of the other man as he crosses the street.

“Credence,” it sounds from downstairs a few moments later, followed by cracking wood and a stifled curse. “I saw something in the window,” he calls, “can I come up?”

As the voice carries through the crumbled hallways, it pierces right through Credence’s soul, makes him flinch and find himself cowering in a dim corner without realizing he’d moved.

For a minute he’s back in Modesty’s old house. _You’re unteachable_ , he hears echoing through his head.

_I’m done with you_.

Heavy footsteps come closer and closer, across creaky steps and half-broken floorboards.

It’s cloudy outside, just before dusk, but there’s still enough light coming through that Credence can see everything he doesn’t want to see. The man notices him in his hiding place and stops in his tracks, carefully kneeling down into the dust and debris on the floor. When a warm ray of sunshine breaks through the clouds and lands right on the face Credence has been trying and failing to forget, the trace of a humourless laugh bubbles up in his chest.

But the sound gets stuck in his throat, because— there’s something different, something so disconcertingly different— _no_ , he tells himself before anything resembling hope can even begin to stir up deep in his gut.

_I trusted you_.

He looks away, back to the hand that is still trailing small wisps of black smoke.

“Listen,” the man says. Credence tries to ignore the way his voice is pleading instead of demanding, almost gentle, not sharp and cutting like before; directs his attention to the wind rattling through the church, and the smell of dust in the air.

“I wish this were easier to explain.”

Finally, it’s the deep note of sorrow in that sentence that makes Credence look back across the room. Mister Graves is kneeling, coat spread out on the floor. His clothes are as unblemished as ever, but now, in the light of the setting sun, Credence notices lines on his face that weren’t there before, lines that he would have seen, even in their usual dark alleyways.

When his gaze eventually lands on Mister Graves’ dark eyes it feels like a punch to the gut, or a strike across his back. A memory flickers before him, the same face twisted in anger, disgust. It looks alien, like it doesn’t belong. Credence pushes it to the back of his mind, focuses on the kindness instead. He may still be a stranger to basic human compassion, but as he watches the corners of Mister Graves’ lips spread into the beginnings of a smile he somehow knows it’s genuine, and the black smoke slowly retreats, the creature inside him settles, his trembling limbs grow calmer.

“Will you listen?”

His voice too hoarse to speak, Credence nods, once, hurried. Hugging his knees to his chest, he waits, tries to look anywhere but the sharp lines of Mister Graves’ face, or his hands clasped tightly in his lap.

A phantom touch ghosts over his shoulder blades, and he shivers.

“Grindelwald— do you remember when I told you about him?”

Credence nods once more. It’s a faded memory: Mister Graves was worried, restless, and Credence had felt like nothing but a burden to a man who had much more important things to do than spend time with someone like him.

“He got to me,” Graves says, squaring his shoulders, stoically, his tired face set in stone. “To all of us. Two months ago. He took my face and held me captive.”

A heavy pause settles in the room. Credence is listening, or trying to, over the ringing in his ear mixing with the other man’s words. Flashes of memories dash through his head: the first time they met, the first touch to the nape of his neck, firm and comforting and new, and all the touches after that.

“Do you believe me when I say that not a day went by that I didn’t think of you?”

Graves’ expression softens; his eyebrows furrowed, a deep, worried line between them. There are dark, dark circles under his eyes, as if he hasn’t gotten any sleep in a week. Maybe he hasn’t.

“I’m sorry I had to barge in and drop this on you, Credence,” Mister Graves adds. “I’m not known for my tact. But I need you to know that you’re not alone. Let me do penance, let me heal you again.”

When silence falls, Credence’s heart is beating out of his chest. The creature in him shifts, like a sleeping cat’s ears perking up at the smallest noise. As if there’s something pulling at him, Credence sits up, crossing his legs and mirroring Mister Graves, however less gracefully: his shoulders are hunched, not wide and self-assured, his clothes dirty in some places, torn in others.

Something is tugging at his heart when he looks Graves in the eyes. Confusion spreads, clouding a betrayal buried so deep Credence thought it and he had become one. It doesn’t make sense, he thinks, but then what does? It could turn out to be another cruel dream; but he takes the chance, strings attached, because at least he won’t be alone again when he ultimately loses hold of himself.

He looks at the broken man in front of him, his effort to hide his cracks almost obvious, and wonders, secretly, selfishly, whether maybe there could be something left in them to fix.

“How can I trust you again,” he asks finally, voice wrecked, pointless as it may be. He’s already decided on his answer.

In place of an answer, Mister Graves stands up and holds out his hand for him to take, and Credence doesn’t think about the other places he’s touched, wanted to touch. Wants to touch.

He reaches out, and then they’re gone.

 

* * *

  

**I**

 

The nausea of apparating dissolves quickly, but everything else remains. As if sensing it, Graves leads him to his couch, the dark leather just as comfortable as he remembers. He sinks into the cushions, feeling tired and broken and wishing Graves wouldn’t have to see him.

Only half-conscious, he waits. Listens to the clinking of glass and water being poured and doesn’t think about the dried blood in his shirt leaving stains. It’s a blur right until Graves sits down across from him, their knees almost touching, and the spinning suddenly stops.

Credence flinches away from the initial brush of skin, impulse trying to keep him away from those hands, from magic, from _this_. But he swallows it down, and reaches out his shaking limb, waits for the pain to fade, the pain that had rooted him in this world; waits for the warmth to spread.

When it does, it feels like the home he never had.

The light streams in through the curtains in hues of blue and red, illuminating Graves from behind, casting his face in neat shadows. Credence can see the details of his face up close from where he sits, and his eyes travel across the deeper lines, a new kind of weariness chiselled into his skin. He discovers a faint scar at his temple that wasn’t there before, circular, with small marks spreading outwards from the edge.

“You’re strong,” Graves says under his breath. He murmurs quiet spells as his hands roam over the wounds on his arms, healing them inch by inch, leaving only faded marks and slight pink scars.

“I don’t know what I would have done if I hadn’t found you in that church.”

Credence has no answer. He stares at his knees instead, trying not to get lost in the comfort of having Graves close again, in the tingle of magic seeping into his body. His eyes flick back and forth between the ground and the elegant fingers dancing across his skin, dabbing ointments onto stubborn cuts, and Credence feels anything but strong.

Minutes pass, maybe hours. The sunset comes and goes without him noticing.

When Graves is finished, he can’t quite believe the sight of himself. There is no blood, no bruising, nothing left of his fight, and it makes Credence wonder if any of this is real.

Graves brings him tea, and it warms him from the inside. His palms are burning hot but Credence revels in the new kind of insignificant pain. The smell of herbs waft into his nose, and before he can think of asking what they are, a deep calm spreads through him, from his toes to his fingertips. He focuses on Graves’ even breathing next to him, calm and quiet, and adjusts his own.

Only after the mug is empty does he dare to look around the room. He remembers most of it; dark blue walls, shelf after shelf overflowing with books. Wooden floors, dark furniture. Specks of dust in the last remaining rays of sun. But one thing is different.

“Mister Graves?” Credence asks tentatively. “There used to be a closet over there.”

He points to a lone photograph hanging on a bleak wall, painted a few shades lighter than the others. Graves sighs.

“You’re as perceptive as I remember,” he says with a smile, something like awe shifting on his face. “My colleagues thought it best to get rid of it before I came back.”

Credence furrows his brows and tilts his head in question.

“That’s where he kept me.”

Something clouds over Graves’ face, then, a mixture of pain and wrath. It’s gone as quickly as it came, but Credence catches it, and his chest tightens at the thought of him stuck in his own home— Credence realizes that when he was here twice before, he was looking at the very same closet Graves was stuck in, only a few feet away.

_You should’ve known_ , a voice in his ear tells him, and he shakes his head at himself. He steals a glance towards the photograph instead, an old brick mansion cast in shadows and covered in ivy, and turns away from the wall.

Mister Graves would look as relaxed as ever if it weren’t for the lines around his mouth, forcing a tight smile on his lips. Credence sits up straight, leans forward in something he hopes looks like compassion.

“I didn’t know,” he whispers, guilt creeping in and breaking up his voice.

The muscles in Graves’ forearms contract, hands balling up into fists where they lie in his lap.

“You couldn’t have. It’s not your fault. He got some sick pleasure out of having you here. You couldn’t have known.”

Credence thinks of the day he realized that Mister Graves had changed into something vicious but chose to ignore it, the day his touches started making the hair on the back of his neck stand up for an entirely different reason than before, and thinks, again, _I should have_.

Graves allows him to have a look around, so he does, glancing at the books and moving pictures and foreign plants — “self-watering charms are truly the most underappreciated treasures in the world of magic, Credence” — fingers ghosting over magical trinkets, never quite touching anything, but being so drawn to them he can’t help it.

There’s a small, metallic panther on one of the shelves, black surface as shimmery as real fur, strutting and prancing around its designated space between two bookends. It turns its head curiously towards Credence, pausing its parade, as if assessing the threat.

Finding him to be harmless, apparently, it returns to its patrol, and Credence can’t help but let out a small noise of wonder at it, only realizing he’d made it when he feels Mister Graves’ presence back next to him.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, without really knowing what he’s sorry for, “I—”

With a wave of his hand, Graves stops him from stammering out an empty apology.

“You can look around as much as you like,” he says. “I mean it when I say that you’re welcome here.”

Restless under Mister Graves’ earnest gaze, too gentle, too inviting, Credence shivers and hides his face in his collar. After a moment, Graves shifts his attention towards the panther instead, huffing out a breath. When Credence looks up, he sees a fond smile play on his lips.

“She takes care of me. And you,” he adds with a secretive wink in his direction.

Credence stares at Graves’ fingers delicately stroking the panther’s head; wondering how they’d feel on spots other than his neck, if they’d be cautious and soft or rough, strong, harsh.

That night, huddled in a mountain of blankets in Graves’ spare bed, is the quickest he falls asleep in as long as he can remember.

 

* * *

 

**II**

 

Credence wakes up to the sound of clattering coming from the kitchen. He shifts, desperately trying to cling to the pleasant hold of a blessedly dreamless sleep, but before he knows it he’s wide awake. When he opens his eyes, he doesn’t have to look around in panic to try and figure out where he is. The smell of the place has grown familiar quickly, and it leaves him soothed first thing in the morning.

For the past few days that he’s spent here, Credence has woken up afraid to see the bare white walls of his own room, to feel the rough fabric of his own sheets, to smell the mildewed air of his church; but with every day that he wakes up, he becomes calmer, more peaceful. Rested, almost.

This morning, he brushes his hand over the soft wool of his blankets more times than necessary, but he feels no guilt for basking in something so pleasant. He reminds himself that he does not have to be afraid of his Ma anymore, and it’s half out of spite that he finds delight in the things he was never allowed.

Sneaking down the hallway in his socks, he stops short near the kitchen’s threshold, wishing he could simply watch the image in front of him before interrupting it with his own clumsy presence. The morning sun is golden, and Graves looks like a dream. He looks up, and Credence waits for the illusion to shatter, for the image to dissolve, but it doesn’t.

“Good morning,” Graves says, stifling a yawn.

Pleasure floods through Credence, then, a possessive burst of excitement, at seeing Graves like this — relaxed, tie still undone around his neck, sleep lingering on his tired face. It’s a softened version of his usual self, which is just as handsome, but upright, cautious, refined. He still exudes an air of confidence, but it’s less imposing now, less threatening.

Credence blinks, and just like that the ground shifts beneath his feet. Something deep in his chest does a jump, and he’s paralyzed for a second, his eyes travelling from graceful hands holding the newspaper to the way Graves’ lips carefully touch his cup of coffee, and he doesn’t know what it _means_.

Credence sits down across the table, as calmly as possible, short of breath and his heart leaping into his throat, before the casual domesticity catches up with him.

It’s something he’s never known, never even dared hope for, and now it’s right in front of him on a silver platter, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it is.

Credence has no idea what to do with it.

“You okay?” Graves asks him, rooting him back in the present, looking at him over the rim of his mug. It’s always like this; Credence gets lost in the labyrinth that is his own head, and Graves simply has to speak to get him back out, his low timbre coating everything in something warm, something pleasant.

One glance towards Graves’ eyes, and then he’s staring at the tabletop again, nodding mechanically and wondering if it’s written all over his face, this sick—

“Hey.” Graves sets the cup down, then, and the newspaper, turning his full attention to the shivering mess that is Credence.

“Nightmare?” he asks, and Credence nods because then he doesn't have to think of another excuse. Truth is, he doesn’t know if he dreams at all. Sometimes he wakes up in the middle of the night, but when he remembers where he is, he falls back into a peaceful sleep, surrounded by the familiar scent of Graves’ cologne, notes he’s never smelled before and can’t put names to.

“Do you remember your dreams?”

Credence shakes his head and, when Graves simply smiles, he thinks, there’s something wondrous in having someone accept his silence, and share it. It’s so profoundly different from the man with the same face that it continues to bewilder him.

Graves reaches out his hand, palm up, an innocent offer that makes Credence flinch for a second, instinctively, before tentatively putting his hand on top of Graves’ in return. A sense of calm wells up within, and he secretly wonders if it’s magic, a silent, wandless spell, or simply _Graves_ , touching him like this, that makes him feel more at ease than he ever has.

 

* * *

 

**III**

 

“Do you want to come join me today?” Graves asks him one day while he’s slicking his hair back and Credence is brushing his teeth.

“To work?” he asks, hoping it’s anything but. Anxiety bubbles up at the mere thought. The memory of the subway station is blurry at best, completely dark most of the time, but some images have made their home in his subconscious mind. He tears his gaze away from Graves in the mirror.

“No, no, I just have to run some errands,” Graves says. “Thought you might like getting outside for a bit. And I might have a surprise,” he adds.

Credence pretends not to notice the hand rubbing his back. He likes the safety of Graves’ apartment, more than he’d ever admit; likes the constant buzz of magic in the air, and the presence of Graves all around him. But he could stand leaving it if Graves comes with him.

“I’ll be with you,” Graves says, as if he can tell what Credence is thinking. Credence smiles at his reflection, and five minutes later he’s buttoning up an old coat Graves found in a closet.

They appear in a street that, at first glance, looks like any other; one of the rich ones, where Credence only ever went to wait for people to ignore him and his pamphlets. At second glance, though, it’s drastically different: window displays move on their own, children gather around foods he’s never seen, storefronts shift appearance, and despite knowing this is his world now, too, he shies away slightly, closer to Graves, the only thing he trusts is real.

There’s a shop a little ways down the street, dark and unassuming. A bell chimes when they enter, and it smells of dust and something powerful and old.

“Director Graves, is that you?” it sounds from the back of the shop, muffled by rows and rows of shelves in the room.

“I’m afraid it’s only Mr. Graves now, Johannes,” he replies, and both Credence and the shopkeeper, emerging from behind a pile of books, stare at him in surprise. Credence had assumed Graves is on leave from work, not that he _left_. Graves gives him a quick look that says _I’ll explain later_ , and turns back to the other man, dismissing the subject for now.

“It’s been a long time since we’ve seen each other,” the man, Johannes, says. “But I have read some things.”

There’s a sliver of judgement in his voice, and Graves’ face falls, subtly shifting from genuine friendliness to something cold and detached. Credence stays on the sidelines, sensing the atmosphere in the room alter and watching the exchange with an uncomfortable shiver creeping up his spine.

“My wand has been impounded.” It’s matter-of-fact, factual, devoid of anything resembling amiability. “And we’d both like to get new ones.”

Credence, focusing too much on the returning fondness lurking behind Graves’ eyes, takes a moment to register what he said. _Wands_. _Both_.

Both?

The shopkeeper squints at them, but seems to realize there’s no way to win this quiet battle. He remains silent, only humming while turning around to his shelves full of _wands_ , apparently, but before Credence has any chance to freak out, there are two slender boxes on the counter in front of him. He steals a glance at Graves, who only smiles and quickly nods in encouragement.

“What happened to your wand, boy?”

The question makes Credence looks up from his shaking hands currently occupied with opening the boxes. But before he can think of what to say, Graves steps back in for him.

“It got destroyed. And he’s not a boy,” he says, and Credence really wishes he could simply run away. Instead, he pretends he knows what he’s supposed to do and peers at Graves across from him. He’s taking a wand out of its case, but quickly lets it fall back when the room is filled with a deafening crack, and Johannes’ lips curl into the hint of an apologetic grin.

Graves’ face twitches in response. Credence can tell he’s not used to receiving pitiful looks from strangers. He’s reminded of the days spent in the street, pamphlets in his hand and shoulders hunched against the cold. He learned to tune out the yelling after a while, and the viciousness thrown at him, but the pity he could see in some people’s faces always made him sick to his stomach.

He watches the scene before him, fascinated and completely clueless, when suddenly, after another attempt, the wand in Graves’ hand starts glowing, warm and calming and beautiful.

“Fir wood,” Johannes infers, as if that explains everything.

Both of the men turn to look at him, and the anxiety of being the centre of attention comes back rushing in.

“Take one,” he’s told, gentler than before, so Credence does.

He doesn’t know what’s meant to happen, but the first one burns his fingers, making him recoil and cradle his own hand against his chest. The second one knocks over the pile of books behind the counter. When the fifth one simply crumbles to dust in his hands, he feels tears pricking his eyes, and his hands start trembling.

“Hey, hey, look at me,” Graves whispers when Johannes walks back into his maze of shelves, “it’s okay. I promise.”

Credence doesn’t say, _what if I’m not magic_ , doesn’t say, _I don’t want to let you down_ , doesn’t say, _I want to leave_. He simply focuses on Graves’ hand on his cheek and waits for his anxiety to fade.

Johannes comes back, and this time the box is a deep red. _Chestnut_ , it says on the label. One part of Credence does not want to open it, or touch it. Another part, though, the part of him that his Ma never fully managed to shatter and destroy, is already reaching for it.

Nothing happens at first. But then his finger tips grow warm, not burning hot but pleasant, and when sparks shoot out of the tip, red and golden, Credence almost lets it fall to the ground in surprise.

His heart is racing. He looks up at the other two men, unbelieving and shocked, and sees Graves grinning at him, one eyebrow raised, saying _I told you_. Credence smiles back, wand still clutched tight in his hand, and he feels a new sense of hope take hold of his soul.

An image flares up in his head; a broken wand, fire, smoke. Poster after poster on the brick walls in the street.

“Sorry about that, Credence,” Graves says when the doorbell chimes behind them on their way outside. “I didn’t expect him to act that way.”

Credence, though, still more than euphoric from the few sparks he conjured up, has almost forgotten about the shopkeeper’s attitude. He’s only wondering about one last thing.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you left your job?”

He doesn’t mean for the tone of disappointment to slip into his voice; immediately regrets it when guilt flashes across Graves’ face.

“I’m very sorry,” Graves says again. “It was a poor decision to keep it a secret. I assumed it would burden you, and I don’t want you to worry.”

Credence has to suppress a humourless laugh; he still has to learn how to react to apologies.

“Do you forgive me?” Graves asks, and Credence almost falters under the weight of his eyes. He gets the feeling the question refers to more than just this secret, but he leaves it, and nods. Attempts another smile, something his face is not quite used to just yet.

“Why did you leave?” he wonders as they turn to leave in the direction they came from.

There’s a pause before Graves replies.

“I thought about it and decided I can’t trust my department anymore. I assume people thought I don’t care about anything besides work and expected me to stay and clean up their mess. But for months they didn’t realize I got replaced by the darkest wizard of our time, so they can’t know me as well as we thought.”

There’s bitterness laced into his words, and he chuckles sourly.

“Some think my decision unprofessional, but I believe there’s no use in holding up the trial of the decade with something trivial as trying to rekindle those relationships. In combat, there’s nothing more important than trust, and the ability to rely on each other. If that’s missing, it puts everyone involved in danger.

“And maybe I am petty,” he adds. They’re nearing a bookshop, and Graves stops in front of it to turn and look at Credence. He puts his hand on Credence’s shoulder, thumb absentmindedly rubbing over his collarbone. “I have every right to be, though, don’t you think?”

Credence nods again, and tries to ignore the thing weighing heavy on his heart, or the goosebumps gathering around the places Graves has touched.

Half an hour later, they leave the shop with a bag of books and Credence wondering how to repay Graves, and still waiting to wake up from his dream.

 

* * *

 

**IV**

 

“When do you… when do you want me to leave?” Credence asks one day, because clearly it’s time; he’s gotten more than he deserves already.

But Graves seems taken aback, eyes wide and his hands halted in mid-air.

“Do you want to leave?” he asks, as if he’d actually expected him to stay, and Credence doesn’t know what to say to that. Would it be rude to admit he doesn't want to? Would Graves keep him around out of sheer guilt? Would—

“You can stay for however long you want, Credence,” Graves interrupts his silent inner collapse.

“I never liked this place. And I have every reason to hate it even more now, but you make it feel like an actual home, instead of just a place to sleep.”

Credence stares at him in disbelief, utterly void of anything to say in return. Graves smiles, and looks away, goes back to sorting his books. Pretends he didn't just say the kindest, most brutally honest thing Credence has ever heard.

So he stays, and turns the place into a home.

 

* * *

 

**V**

 

The perpetual chill around Credence lifts. He’d grown so familiar with the ache in his chest that once he realizes it’s gone, he panics. But then, slowly and carefully, he takes a deep breath, and it doesn’t hurt, and he’s alive.

From then on, he stands taller than before, and he realizes Graves and he are not the same height. It’s a strange realization; Graves being who he is, and Credence being who _he_ is, he’s never thought of towering over him.

Something new grows inside, something warm and unrecognizable. Sometimes it raps against the inside of his chest, like a captured animal trying to escape, but Credence is not afraid of it. It roars when Graves smiles, and Credence feels vigorous.

Their touches become more frequent; he welcomes the chill down his spine when Graves grazes his neck or nudges him in the side to get his attention. He himself stops thinking about his every movement, every gesture, simply returns them — a pat on the shoulder, or a brush of hands when passing a knife. Their thighs, next to each other on the sofa; an embrace when Credence stares out of the window for too long, getting lost in his own mind.

His chest is about to break from the creature beating against it, but Credence is not afraid, not anymore.

 

* * *

 

**VI**

 

He’s slowly getting used to the magic flowing out of his fingers. It’s exhilarating, controlling this raw power within him. It’s not dark anymore, or like smoke. It’s invisible sparks that don’t have to hurt.

Right now, there’s a teacup floating an inch above the kitchen table, quivering with Credence’s every breath.

“Can you try going higher?” Graves asks from where he’s standing next to him, his own wand in hand.

“I don’t want to break anything,” Credence says.

“Don’t worry, I can fix it.”

So Credence tries, moves his arm and focuses on the magic in his blood, the cup levitating higher and higher, and then Graves’ wand hand brushes against his. The teacup almost falls, but Graves shushes him, tells him to focus. It’s a feat with his breath tickling the nape of his neck and his chest so close to Credence’s back, but he manages, barely.

“Set it back down,” Graves tells him, and Credence’s fingertips are tingling for a different reason. Still, the cup lands safely back on the tabletop. Credence realises he’s smiling wide from ear to ear, a thrilling sense of pride washing over him. When he turns around to look at Graves, as if to make sure he’s done it right, he almost shrinks back: his face is so, _so_ close, and he finds a level of wonder in his expression that takes his breath away.

“You’re a marvel, Credence,” Graves says and winds his arm around his waist, pivots him against the edge of the kitchen counter. There are laughter lines crinkling the edges of his eyes.

“A marvel.”

And then, because his head’s still spinning, and feeling Graves so solid against his whole body makes him forget his name; Credence leans forward and presses their lips together. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or what he’s supposed to be doing, but the mere sensation of their touch has his knees going weak and his hands scrambling to get a hold of the wood digging into his hip. His wand clatters, unnoticed, to the floor.

That first kiss is hurried, messy, and perfect, and when they move apart Credence is entirely short of breath. He realizes what he’s done with a start, but Graves’ lips are still shaped into a smile, and Credence blushes when he sees they’re slightly red, too.

The second kiss comes soon after, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth, sixth, seventh— in rapid succession, the pauses in between growing shorter and shorter until they stay close together, Graves gently nibbling at his bottom lip, and Credence can do nothing but gasp.

Graves leans back, raises his hand to run his fingers through the mess that is Credence’s hair. Credence is still clinging to the counter, no clue what to do with his hands, awkward and anxious and—

“You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Credence looks back up into Graves’ eyes, finds something there that tears at his heart. How someone like Graves can look at him with such wonder in his eyes, he does not know — but he’ll take it, everything, anything that Graves is willing to give. His hand is cupping Credence’s jaw, his thumb brushing over his cheek, his lips; Credence shudders before turning his head to the side, one part to hide his blush, one part to press a light kiss against the palm of Graves’ hand. He doesn’t know, doesn’t know anything, if this is right or wrong or _what_ ; all he knows is that he wants to touch Graves everywhere, anywhere.

He’s thought about this, secretly, and now that he is where he is, it feels like nothing but a dream; the specks of dust floating in the air, Graves’ smile directed at him, at _him_ , of all people; his hand on Credence’s hip, their bodies so close he can’t take a breath without his chest touching Graves’.

“You want to try another spell?” Graves asks against the skin behind his ear.

Fact is, Credence feels as if he could lift up a mountain off the face of the earth with adrenaline and magic chasing each other through his veins. Another fact, though, is: he never wants to leave this embrace, this all-enveloping warmth, not for as long as he doesn’t have to.

Credence slowly shakes his head. He has yet to earn the confidence to choose the right words, always faltering, always stammering. Instead he kisses just the corner of Graves’ mouth, staying still for a moment, hoping he gets his point across. Graves chuckles.

“Alright, then,” he breathes, and Credence gathers all the courage he has left to graze kiss after kiss across Graves’ jaw up to his ear, down to his neck, because he cannot trust words to convey what he wants. There’s something triumphant in using touch instead — to use something that, in the past, caused nothing but pain.

Still, he shrinks back when he feels Graves’ pulse quicken under his skin. There’s a flush creeping up his neck, and Credence assumes he isn’t faring any better, but it’s so unexpected that he does nothing but stare.

“My neck might be a bit sensitive,” Graves whispers in an almost colluding way, so Credence vows to pay it special attention next time— _next time_. If there is one, because—

They kiss again, and Credence loses his train of thought entirely.

Teacups and wands lying forgotten in the kitchen, they end up in Graves’ bed, listening to the radio play quiet jazz, simply lying next to each other, nose to nose. Sometimes they share a kiss; mostly they tangle their fingers together, and it’s already more than Credence ever could have wished for.

“You know, if anyone saw me right now, they might think someone’s stolen my face again,” Graves whispers into the quiet of the night. He wraps his arm tighter around Credence’s waist.

“I’m not usually the affectionate type.”

This is the only way Graves ever talks about Grindelwald, when he does: casual, offhand, as if he can defeat his ghost by pretending it’s not there, nothing but a distant, insignificant memory. Credence has slowly been replacing memories, rough touches with soft ones, cold eyes with honest ones. But Graves, he knows, still can’t look into the mirror for too long.

Because of some miracle, though, he likes to look at Credence. Credence, who wishes he could give back every bit of the kindness Graves has shown him. Credence, who doesn’t quite yet know how, but tries his best. And when Graves smiles, Credence wonders if maybe he sees something in his expression that reminds him he’s not Grindelwald.

 

* * *

 

**VII**

 

He pronounces his name differently, less harsh than Ma had always done. The sibilant doesn’t sound like a vicious hiss, and when he stretches it out it’s almost poetic, reminds Credence of beautiful speeches in the early sermons, back when his Ma still took him to regular church; makes him remember the word actually means something.

And then sometimes, when Graves’ voice turns low and hoarse, it doesn’t remind him of church at all; it’s a new kind of holiness, and Credence bows down before it as if for salvation.

 

* * *

 

**VIII**

 

It’s like a living thing, deep in his bones, what he feels when Graves touches him. It’s not the creature, still in its slumber, no: something else entirely, all-consuming and starved.

He’s on fire and trembling on Graves’ too-soft sheets.

“It hurts,” he says under his breath, but before Graves can move away and stop, Credence digs his fingers into his back and holds him as close as he can. And it doesn’t hurt, exactly; he knows pain, he does, but this— this feels so good it’s threatening to be too much. Except it’s never going to be too much, or enough, for him. He could drown in it and still ask for more, now that he knows he’s allowed to ask, to wish, to _need_.

“You want me to kiss it better?” Graves asks, whispers it into his ear, and the little rushes of air against his skin send shivers down his spine, tiny bursts of electricity pooling deep in his belly.

His throat tied up, Credence can only nod; whimpers obscenely when Graves’ lips first meet the spot on his neck where his pulse is speeding up.

“Does it hurt here?” he says in between kisses, growls it almost, and Credence is so close that he can feel his chest vibrate with it.

He shakes his head negative, and Graves moves further down, to his collarbone, where he nibbles on the skin and licks it over, but he already knows he’s not anywhere near where Credence is hurting.

His breastbone, the ghost of a kiss — _no_ — the side of his torso, making him breathe out a giggle, but still, when Graves looks up at him in question, Credence shakes his head, feeling dangerous, and powerful, and all the things only Graves ever lets him be. A wet kiss on his chest that makes him moan, a brush of lips across the expanse of his protruding ribs.

His pants are getting tighter, Credence can feel it, can feel his blood pulsing and his hips wanting to move on their own accord, but still Graves is sinking lower on the bed, looming over him, with his broad shoulders looking majestic like the panther perched on top of the living room shelf.

A feather-light touch placed right underneath his belly button makes him forget all about any panther or any other fitting thing’s resemblance to Graves above him, anything else but Graves’ breath ghosting across his stomach.

“Am I getting close?” he asks, and Credence’s breath hitches, turns even heavier. He nods, and stares as Graves noses along the line of his pants, so deliciously close, and finally, _finally_ , touches him.

“Yes,” Credence moans, answering the unspoken question, fingers buried in Graves’ once carefully styled hair; marveling at the sight, torn between seizing up with pleasure and not wanting to miss a single moment of it, of perpetually composed Graves looking up at him from where he is, utterly ruining Credence in the best of ways.

“Yes,” he says again, and Graves moves to drag down his waistband, a mischievous, sinful smile spreading on his face.

 

* * *

 

**INTERMISSION**

 

There’s a man on the other side of the street, scarf wrapped tight around his neck, tails of his coat billowing in the heavy New York wind.

It’s bitterly cold, and Credence’s teeth are chattering, his trembling hands threatening to let the flyers in his hands fall to the frozen ground. When he looks up and sees the man staring right at him, he clutches them tighter. He’s a constant in the bustle of the city, unmoving and enchanting, though nobody else seems to notice him. A mirror of Credence, in a way, and yet completely different. He stands tall and confident, like he owns the ground he’s standing on.

The sound of his mother’s speech is tuned out, until for a second there’s only blessed silence. Then the man starts moving across the street, headed right towards him, and everything comes rushing back in. He’s even more handsome up close; Credence finds himself hoping, secretly, against his better judgement, that this is not the only time he’ll see him.

There’s a kindness in his features that Credence doesn’t know is going to disappear soon.

“Tell me about witches,” the man says, voice dark and intoxicating, and the smile spreading on his face makes Credence forget every word his mother has ever taught him.

 

* * *

 

**IX**

 

It’s fifty-two weeks after they found each other again that they’re starting to heal.

Graves is standing by the window with a cup of coffee in his hands, lost in thought, looking outside through a gap in the curtains. Heavy raindrops beat against the glass, and Credence watches the scene from where he’s trying to read on the couch, feeling at peace.

A movement at the edge of his vision catches his eye. But as he looks around the room, he remembers the day he came back here, for the third time. A year ago, and it already feels like the remnant memory of a different life.

“Graves,” he says quietly, waits for the man to turn around. Even after all this time Credence is still taken aback by how graceful he makes the most mundane things look.

“Do you know what day it is?”

Graves nods, _of course_ , still short of words.

Two weeks ago was a day spent not talking much, or doing much of anything besides quietly sitting at the kitchen table with an ever-cooling cup of coffee in front of him. It was the anniversary of his rescue, and yet the ghost of Grindelwald had never been more present. Credence felt he did not want to speak, and he did not pry. It was the only thing he could do, that day. Words have been scarce since.

( _I’m not a sentimental man_ , was the only thing Graves had said; _but this_ — and Credence had only shut him up with a kiss to the scar on his temple.)

Credence gets up and walks up to Graves, winds his arms around his waist. He inhales the smell of the man’s cologne, presses his lips to his throat.

“You saved me,” he says, meeting Graves' eye. That’s one thing he learned from him: stand up tall, look straight ahead. “I never thanked you.”

“You did, in your own way,” Graves replies. “But you didn’t have to thank me. I wanted to.”

Credence smiles and tightens his hold on Graves’ body.

“You’re always trying to save everyone,” he murmurs, and finally finds the courage to breach what Graves has desperately been trying to avoid. “Let someone save you, too.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Graves whispers after a long moment. The hand not holding his cup settles on the back of Credence’s head, buried in the thick hair he loves so much, and he brushes a gentle kiss to his temple.

Safe in each other’s arms, they ignore the starry night sky in favour of each other.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't even know, you guys. i don't even know. i feel kinda rusty but i hope you still enjoyed reading this as much as i did writing it. would absolutely love some feedback, and all that jazz. :)


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